Dexter's car slid into the parking lot of a cheap motel that pretended to be a love hotel but didn't fool anyone. Neon lights flickered in tired pinks and blues, buzzing with the same kind of exhaustion that hung over the cracked walls and stained curtains. Broken hearts, broken people, broken promises — all of them checked in here and disappeared without making a sound.
He parked crookedly, killed the engine, and sat motionless, hands gripping the steering wheel.
Then he exhaled — slow, deliberate — and a transformation washed over him like he was switching bodies.
His shoulders loosened.
His spine uncoiled.
The rigid mask he wore at school melted away.
And when he stepped out of the car, it was as if he had been born somewhere else entirely.
He wore a bright smile — loud, charming, exaggerated — the kind of smile meant to hypnotize rather than reassure. He ran a hand through his hair like a performer before stepping onstage.
"Let's do this," he murmured to himself. But it wasn't preparation.
It was ritual.
Inside the lobby, buzzing fluorescent lights hummed overhead. The reception smelled faintly of cheap cologne and burn marks from microwaved takeout meals. Plastic flowers drooped in a vase that hadn't been dusted in a decade.
Behind the counter slouched Jake — the receptionist — a young Mexican guy flipping through a fashion magazine while wearing an outfit that could make even a mannequin cry. Cigarette hanging from his mouth, hair wild, posture messy.
Dexter spread his arms open dramatically.
"My man Jake! How you doing, my boy?"
Jake jumped up, eyes lighting up like a kid seeing a superhero.
"Dex! Aye hermano, what's up? Been a long time, man."
They clasped hands, pulling each other into a rough hug.
Dexter leaned against the counter, rocking side to side excitedly. "So? Tell me — any auditions? Any runs? Fashion week? You better not be wasting your face, man."
Jake groaned, rubbing his forehead with the back of his hand. "Nada, bro. Nada yet. Dios mío, I keep praying. One day I'll walk that runway. You'll see. I'll make it."
Dexter patted his shoulder with exaggerated affection. "You will. And when you do, don't forget us little people, yeah?"
Jake laughed — louder than the lobby ever deserved — happier in that moment than he had been all week.
Dexter walked away, his friendly energy trailing behind him like perfume.
He climbed the staircase to the third floor, whistling softly, almost cheerfully. The carpet swallowed his footsteps. A dozen doors lined the hallway, some closed, some slightly ajar, each hiding secrets no one would ever speak of.
Halfway down, Allen appeared — the janitor — dragging cleaning supplies on a rolling cart. Middle-aged, forgettable face, forgettable hair, forgettable life. The kind of man who vanished without anyone asking why.
Dexter raised both arms as if greeting a long-lost brother.
"Allen, my man! Tell me my usual room is spotless."
Allen adjusted his glasses. "I deep cleaned it like you asked, sir. Even the walls. Just… I don't get why it needs to be cleaned so intensely every time. Nobody else—"
Dexter laughed, cutting him off with a friendly tap on the arm. "You think too much. Just answer me this — where's mi reyna?"
He meant the manager.
Allen pointed toward the very last door in the hallway. "She's in her office. Just don't—"
He didn't finish.
Because the door to Room 307 swung open with violent force — so fast and so hard it nearly collided with Dexter's face.
Dexter didn't flinch.
A woman stumbled out — mascara running down her cheeks, blouse torn slightly at the shoulder — being dragged by a tattooed man. The man slammed her against the hallway wall with a snarl.
"You didn't wanna do it, you should've said that from the beginning!" he roared in a thick Mexican accent. "You wasted my damn time!"
She sobbed out apologies, voice quivering like something broken.
Dexter stepped aside to pass them, disinterested. This wasn't his fight. He didn't save people. Not unless there was something in it for him.
But then — the woman looked at him.
Desperation flickered in her red, swollen eyes. She grasped the air toward him with trembling fingers.
"Please… help me."
Dexter paused mid-step.
Not because of sympathy.
Because of power.
The tattooed man grabbed Dexter's collar aggressively. "Back off, bro. None of your damn business. Walk away."
Dexter gave a soft smile — warm, amused, almost theatrical.
"It wasn't my business," he said calmly. "But she asked for my help. So now it is."
The man leaned closer, noses almost touching, breath sharp with alcohol. "You see this tattoo? You know what it means? It's La Sombra Roja. We find you. We kill your whole family."
The smile drained from Dexter's face.
There were moments in Dexter's world when silence was louder than violence. This was one of them. The hallway felt like it held its breath.
The tattooed man turned away — thinking it was over.
Dexter grabbed him by the hair so fast the human eye could barely track the motion — and slammed his face into the wall.
Bone cracked. Blood surged down the man's chin.
He dropped, coughing, swearing, trying to get up.
Dexter stepped back, watching him with cold curiosity — then delivered a knee strike to the ribs so brutal it echoed. The man collapsed into a shaking puddle of breath and spit.
Dexter crouched beside him — no anger, no emotion — just control.
"You threaten me again…" His voice was low, soft enough to sound almost tender. "And I'll kill your family. Your friends. Every woman who ever loved you. And I won't even blink."
The man whimpered into the floor.
Dexter stood, wiped blood from his hands onto his shirt as casually as if brushing off lint, then turned to Allen.
"Clean the mess."
Allen nodded immediately — no hesitation, no questions — because some men are built to follow orders.
Dexter walked down the hall toward the final door and knocked once.
"Come in," a woman called.
He opened the door — and instantly the mask returned.
Bright smile.
Warm eyes.
Friendly voice.
The persona of a man adored by everyone and feared by no one.
"Long time no see," Dexter said smoothly.
The woman sitting behind the desk lifted her head.
Mary.
Susan's mother.
She smiled — unaware of the blood drying in the hallway behind him. Her lipstick looked fresh. Her hair curled in soft waves. Her blouse was buttoned neatly — nothing like the wreck Susan had seen that morning.
Out in the hallway, the carpet slowly absorbed a puddle of blood that would be forgotten by morning...